


Welcome to the Jam

by marmaladechainsaw



Series: Love & Basketball [2]
Category: Basketball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Facials, Humiliation, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slut Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmaladechainsaw/pseuds/marmaladechainsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph isn't the best at dealing with things when it comes to LeBron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back with the second fic in my 'Love & Basketball' series. 
> 
> First I guess I should say that if you haven't read the first fic in the series, "Come On and Slam", you should probably read that one first!
> 
> Next, I want to say..don't be alarmed by the Anderson Varejao/Stephen Curry tag! This story/series is still ultimately very much a LeBron/Steph fic. So don't worry! (=
> 
> And, as always: I am very much not a professional writer..I just write for fun! So it's entirely possible there are some mistakes within. Also, this one has been more difficult for me to write than my first story, for some reason. And there's a lot of introspection/angst-ing on Steph's part. Still, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> OH, and the title is totally the 2nd line from the Space Jam theme. Yeah :3 
> 
> Obligatory Disclaimer: This story is taken entirely from my perverted imagination and is in no way true.

Varejao was a maudlin drunk.

That was what Steph learned in the span of about twenty minutes while sitting next to his newest teammate at the Soko Bar off of 5th Street. After the conclusion of the day's earlier practice, Steph had announced his intentions to stop at a nearby bar for a drink, but all of the other guys had been too busy to come along. Even Klay, who usually accompanied him on such excursions, had begged off--"Sorry, man, I got shit to do"--but to Steph's surprise, Anderson Varejao, who their team had only acquired a few weeks ago, had volunteered to join him.

They'd driven separately, and Steph had barely settled in at the bar with his first drink before Varejao had started in on a tale of woe. He was disappointed about being traded by the Cavs, he wasn't sure what was going to happen with his career now, he couldn't find a matching pair of socks that morning..Steph let him ramble, as he seemed more than content to listen to himself talk. Meanwhile Steph nursed his gin and tonic, tuning Varejao out, his thoughts drifting back to a few weeks ago.

Steph felt his heart jump again as it did every time he thought about what had happened. He'd run into LeBron after the game and, still reeling from their humiliating loss to the Cavs, had gotten mouthy towards the other man. He hadn't counted on LeBron getting physical with him--and then getting physical with him in an entirely different way.

In truth, he'd had something of a crush on LeBron far before their encounter in the locker room. At first Steph had told himself it was simply admiration for a fellow ball player, but after a few times of becoming sweaty and nervous in the other man's presence--not to mention some embarrassing wet dreams that transported him right back to his high school years--he had to admit that it was less "polite reverence" and more "sickening lust and utter hero-worship" he felt towards LeBron.

Steph had suppressed the feelings, knowing there was no way anything would ever come of them. He'd focused on his game, hoping to win LeBron's respect if nothing else. But instead LeBron seemed to view him as something of a threat, beyond just the typical friendly competition, and pretty soon their rivalry had become standard NBA lore, one that Steph had publicly played into. Privately, he'd been forced to concede that no matter how well he played, LeBron might only ever regard him as a rookie pest who would never live up to standards.

But then the locker room encounter had occurred, and even now weeks later Steph still couldn't make sense of it. His face flushed as the memories rushed back to him in perfect, vivid clarity. LeBron pushing him around, pinning him in place, insulting him; ordering him to his knees; shoving into him with his ridiculously large cock, Steph unable to do anything but scream and take it. He'd walked with a limp for days afterwards, ignoring the funny looks from his teammates and Klay's nosy questioning, which necessitated a made-up story about falling and bruising his tailbone at practice. 

The encounter had been a power play, a display of utter dominance to 'put Steph in his place'--and while Steph knew he should resent it, deep down he ached for it to happen again. The thought of being LeBron's--his bitch, Steph's mind supplied, summoning up the memory of LeBron growling the word into his ear, razor-sharp--was more appealing than he wanted to admit. His stomach gave a funny little twist, and he shifted slightly on the uncomfortable barstool as he imagined LeBron pulling him to the side before their next game, telling him to be ready on his knees in the locker room afterwards.

"..and it's just such bullshit! You know what I'm saying?" Varejao was looking at him, expression imploring, his brown eyes already a little glassy from his third rum and Coke. 

"Huh? Oh, yeah, man. Totally." Steph finished off the rest of his glass, motioning the bartender over for another. He liked coming to the Soko Bar when he was in his hometown, as it was a sort of hipster hole-in-the wall where he never attracted too much attention. The last thing he wanted when he was feeling contemplative was to be bombarded with autograph requests from excited fans.

Steph ordered his second drink, while Varejao put in for his fourth, gulping down the rest of his current glass after the bartender turned away. He started in on his monologue again, and once again Steph let his thoughts wander.

They were due to fly to Cleveland in two weeks for their next game against the Cavs, which meant coming face-to-face with LeBron again. The thought sent a fresh wave of apprehension coursing through him, and he nodded gratefully at the bartender as she set another drink in front of him. The liquid burned on the way down his throat as it spread its warmth throughout his entire body, his mind already starting to fuzz at the edges.

What if his encounter with LeBron was just a fluke, and the other man avoided him from now on? It had definitely occurred to Steph that any chance at earning LeBron's respect had been utterly wiped out the moment he bared his belly, so to speak. Maybe he'd been a conquest and nothing more. After all, it wasn't likely that LeBron was going to approach him after their next game, flowers in hand, and ask him on a date. Steph smiled grimly into his glass at the ridiculous thought, chasing after his anxiety with another swig of gin.

It was probably smartest to put the entire thing out of his mind for the time being. It would only distract him from playing, and the last thing he wanted was to jeopardize their game so that they ended up losing to the Cleveland team again. No; for now, he would try to forget about it as LeBron had no doubt already done, and show the other man that he was still a force to be reckoned with, no matter what had transpired between them. 

Steeled with sudden resolve (and now more than a little buzzed), Steph glanced over at Varejao, who was still talking, his eyes trained on the bartop, huge hand curled around his glass. We're a lot alike, Steph mused with dark humor. We both got fucked over by the Cavs.

Steph snorted at the thought, finding it amusing in his intoxicated state. As he took another drink a sudden idea occurred to him, hot and sharp enough to pierce through the fog in his mind. 

While part of acquiring Varejao during trades was beneficial purely from a technical standpoint--Varejao was huge, and filled a niche on their team that would really improve their game--no one would argue that recruiting him had the added benefit of getting into the Cavs' heads. It gave them a tactical advantage to psyche out their enemies, especially the Cavs, who remained their fiercest competition, same as last year. Steph knew that LeBron in particular must've been affected, as in the past he'd spoken very fondly of Varejao to the media and likely hadn't wanted to trade him in the first place.

What if he got to LeBron even more by fucking with Varejao, Steph thought lazily as he idly swirled his glass, green eyes trained on an oblivious Varejao. Get his attention again, maybe. At the very least, it might distract him from the pesky memories of their encounter that kept assaulting him at every turn. And besides, Varejao wasn't hard on the eyes, he thought, eyes flicking over Varejao's high cheekbones, his full lips. Maybe..maybe, he might get some enjoyment out of it too. 

Steph took another drink.

\--------

 

Ten minutes later found them in the alleyway out behind the bar, their alcohol-soaked breaths mingling as they pressed closely together up against the dirty brick wall. Whether Varejao was there out of genuine interest or a drunken desire for company Steph did not know, and in his intoxicated state he didn't care. Either way Varejao was eager enough, his big hands roaming down Steph's sides and up under the hem of his white tee. He even let Steph kiss him, Steph's hands tangled in his long hair to bring him within reach as their tongues sloppily entwined. 

The kiss was all wrong--Varejao's face was smooth, not stubbled, and his hands on Steph's waist were solid but restrained--but Steph was hard anyways, his gin-addled mind buzzing. Suddenly frustrated with the slow pace of things, he broke away from the kiss, thin chest heaving as he met Varejao's eyes.

Varejao did not pull away entirely, but he looked suddenly uncertain, his clouded eyes roaming over Steph's face. "Er..I don't have any-" he began hesitantly, breath reeking of rum. 

"Doesn't matter," Steph cut him off, his voice ragged. He was already turning around, suddenly unable to bear looking at Varejao's face, or listen to his not-deep-enough voice. "Just fuck me already."

Steph undid his own pants, pushing them down along with his boxers just far enough, his heart pumping wildly as he waited. He heard the sound of a zipper, a rustling of cloth, and the distinctive sound of spitting; then a moment later Varejao was moving in closely to press flush up against his back, bracing one hand against the wall near Steph's shoulder.

Even with the aid of alcohol and spit it fucking hurt. Steph felt his eyes tear as Varejao pushed into him, one hand curled awkwardly around Steph's left hip for leverage. He gritted his teeth as Varejao slowly sank in, inch by inch, Steph pinioned against the filthy wall like a pinned butterfly. 

Varejao set an uneven pace, his rhythm clearly affected by the alcohol they'd consumed. It was sharp and painful, like being fucked with a cheese grater. Gritting his teeth, Steph widened his stance and tilted his pelvis back, and with the change in angle a tiny frission of pleasure licked up his spine with each thrust, the searing pain slowly fading. Steph squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself against the wall, catching the tiny gasps that threatened to bubble up from his throat.

His head swam as he listened to Varejao's soft grunts and the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh as the other man rocked into Steph again and again. Licking at his bottom lip, Steph reached down and curled a hand around his own dick, stroking in quick, short successions as he imagined it was LeBron in Varejao's place, grip tightening on his hips until the bones ached, fucking into him with that furious intensity born from competitiveness and hatred and dark, primal lust. The image sent a surge of heat through him so overwhelming he nearly collapsed, and a moment later Steph's spine stiffened and he was cumming all over the brick with a strangled cry. 

Still dazed, he distantly noted a muffled curse from behind him, and then Varejao pulled out suddenly. When Steph turned to look over his shoulder he saw Varejao biting his lip, brow deeply furrowed and eyes clenched shut, tugging hard on his dick. Seconds later he let out a low groan, and Steph watched with equal parts relief and disappointment as he spilled all over his own hand.

They were silent as they got themselves together, Steph doing up his pants and smoothing out his wrinkled shirt, suddenly feeling very sober. Varejao had already tucked himself away and was standing there awkwardly, his cheeks flushed with spirits and exertion, aiming for an inscrutable expression but projecting "clueless student during a final exam" instead.

Steph licked his lips and worked his dry throat, wishing for another drink. "So..I'll, uh, see you at practice, then."

Varejao nodded stiffly, seemingly at a loss for words for the first time all night. They left the alley together, parting ways in the parking lot without another word to each other.

Once inside his car Steph cursed aloud, pounding his fist against the steering wheel. Far from feeling temporarily satisfied, he just felt cold instead. There were no stubble burns on his neck, no bruises on his hips; a slight, twinging pain in his ass, sure, but nothing like the entire-body ache he'd experienced after getting nailed against the lockers by LeBron. 

But worse than all that was the fact that he would have to continue to play alongside Varejao from here on out. It was a fact that his gin-addled brain had not properly registered earlier, concerned only with instant gratification at the time. How awkward was it going to be to try and foster any sort of camaraderie with their newest player, when Steph knew how Varejao's dick felt inside him, what he looked like when he busted a load?

And what would LeBron say if he found out? Steph's stomach plummeted at the thought. Would he be indifferent? Disgusted? Angry..or jealous? The thought of the last one made his heart skip a beat.

Steph ran a hand over his face with a groan, bringing it down to curl into a fist under his chin as he stared blankly out the window. What the fuck had he done?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! 
> 
> I've been nit-picking over this story like crazy so I thought I'd better post this next part before I drive myself nuts. Also it occurred to me that I seem to have inadvertently turned Steph into your typical twink..but is twink!Steph Curry such a bad thing?? :D 
> 
> There will probably be one more chapter after this (which is already finished; I just want to give it a final once-over before I post it) and then the last chapter, which is where the best part comes in once again ; )
> 
> Hope you enjoy! And thanks to everyone who's reading/leaving me feedback--it always makes my day!
> 
> Oh, and nothing against Draymond..but someone's gotta be the villain ; )

Steph rested his head against the cool airplane window, staring out at the clouds that hovered beneath them. The Weeknd's soulful voice blasted from his chunky neon-green headphones, mercifully drowning out Klay's snoring from the seat behind him. 

It should have been a peaceful flight--a chance for him to catch some rest like Klay and some of the other guys--but his stomach was in knots, and he couldn't seem to doze off. They were en-route to Cleveland to play the Cavaliers that evening, and the very thought of it had him squirming in his seat.

Fucking Varejao had been a mistake. That was something Steph had realized approximately 2.5 seconds after it happened (or maybe even sooner). While he should have spent the last few weeks practicing hard and focused entirely on ball, instead he'd spent it dodging Varejao and dreading their next match up against the Cavs. As a result his game had suffered, and Steph found himself making dumb mistakes and missing many of the shots he would usually make easily. 

He glanced up the aisle to where Varejao sat, his curly hair visible even over the back of the tall seat. Steph tried to imagine what he was thinking, coming back to Cleveland to play against the team he'd spent so many years with and who had ultimately traded him away. If he was still upset he kept it to himself: he got along well enough with the rest of the guys, although things had definitely been strained between he and Steph, something Steph knew at least Klay had begun to catch onto. They might never be cool after what happened, Steph thought grimly: just like he and LeBron.

His somber train of thoughts was interuppted as his headphones were suddenly lifted clear off his head, taking the Weeknd's crooning with them. Startled, Steph glanced up to see a suddenly-awake Klay peeking over the seat, Steph's headphones dangling from his fingers.

"You're really jumpy today," his friend commented, arching a brow at him. He glanced cautiously out of the corner of his eye, checking for any nearby listeners, before leaning in closer, his voice lowered. "Is it because of what Draymond said to you?"

Steph grimaced. He definitely hadn't forgotten his unpleasant encounter with Draymond, only two days ago. 

At first no one had commented on how Steph's game was suddenly lacking--after all, everyone went through a rut once in a while--but it was impossible not to notice, especially when Steph couldn't seem to get it together after several nights of poor performance. His team was awesome, and they naturally covered for him, but without his massive addition of points each game they had struggled, sometimes only barely pulling off a win. 

Kerr had definitely noticed Steph's shoddy playing, offering all the advice and guidance he could, but he was clearly starting to get frustrated along with the rest of the team. And although Steph tried not to pay too much attention to the media, he knew the news and sports channels were starting to question his sudden downslide. But the more he tried, the worse he seemed to do: his golden arm had turned to bronze, and Steph was afraid that it might stay that way.

Things had finally come to a head a few days ago at practice, when Steph had continued his new and frustrating pattern of only making a fraction of his usual shots. He'd taken another 3-point shot, watching with grim disquiet as it missed once again, bouncing off the side of the hoop and skittering across the floor, only to be stopped by Draymond's foot.

"I've had it with this bullshit." Draymond had started towards him, shaking off Iguodola's half-hearted attempt to hold him back by the arm. "No, man, I'mma fucking say it if no one else will."

Draymond grabbed Steph by the collar of his t-shirt, jerking him forward and leaning down close until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Steph had kept his face neutral, but his heart had been racing, and he'd had to keep himself from trying to squirm out of the tight grip. Draymond was notorious for his temper, but he had never been on the receiving end of it before, and Draymond's irate expression was more than a little unsettling.

"You've been playing like fucking shit lately, Curry. I don't know what your problem is, but you'd better shape up real quick. If we fucking lose to Cleveland again because of you I'm gonna kick your punk ass for real."

The words cut straight to Steph's core. Of course everyone knew he'd been playing poorly lately, but no one had acknowledged it, perhaps silently hoping (like Steph himself) that he would shake out of his funk. Now Draymond was saying what the rest of the team had likely been thinking, and Steph could feel his face burning, embarrassed to be called out in front of everyone, including Varejao, who had studiously avoided glancing anywhere in their direction.

"That's enough, man." Klay had moved in then, his brow creased, looking ready to physically intervene if he had to.

But Draymond ignored him, fierce, dark eyes searching Steph's face for a long moment before sneering and abruptly releasing him. "I'll be on the plane," was all he'd said before storming out, leaving the practice a full half hour early.

Practice had continued awkwardly without much talking, and afterwards Klay had pulled him aside in the locker room, his expression concerned. "You okay, man? He laid into you pretty hard back there."

Steph had forced a laugh, keeping his tone upbeat. The last thing he needed when he already felt like shit was Klay fretting over him. "Would you cut that mothering shit out? Draymond's just Draymond. You know how he gets, man. It's no big thing."

"Still..he didn't have to be such a dick about it." Klay frowned, looking at him thoughtfully, Steph avoiding his probing eyes. "What's going on, man? Is everything okay? It's not like you to..well, you know."

"Suck?" Steph laughed again, this time a little more genuinely. "Seriously, man, give it a rest. I'm just..distracted, is all."

Klay's frown had deepened, not placated in the least. "Distracted? Is it 'cause of our last game against the Cavs?"

Steph had hid a grimace. It was because of the Cavs, alright--or one Cav and one ex-Cav, to be precise--but Klay definitely didn't need to know about that. 

"Yeah, I guess a little," he'd said casually, shrugging. "I mean, we should've won that one, you know? Seems like it always comes down to us versus them."

Klay, seemingly satisfied with his answer, had clapped him on the shoulder with a smile, hefting his gym bag over his own shoulder. "Don't worry, man. I'm sure after we kick their asses this time you'll get rid of this weird mental roadblock and be back on your A-game." He waggled his brows at Steph, already moving towards the door. "After all, you gotta defend your title of 'The Baby-Faced Killer!'"

Steph had groaned good-naturedly as he followed Klay out, his spirits momentarily lifted by his friend's unceasing optimism. "Fuck you, man, you know I hate that stupid-ass nickname!"

Now, Steph just waved Klay's concerns away, trying to look reassuring. "You worry too damned much. I'm a big boy; I think I can handle a little criticism."

Klay rolled his eyes as he rested his chin on the back of the first-class seat, his long arms dangling over the edge, heedless of Steph's personal space as always. "There's a difference between criticism and threatening someone. I don't think Draymond saying he's going to 'kick your ass' would motivate anyone to do better."

"It might. He can be pretty scary," Steph grinned with false cheer. In truth, he wasn't so much worried about Draymond making good on his threat--he doubted the other man would risk the punishment from the league and backlash from many others--but he DID worry about losing the respect he'd worked so hard to gain. Ever since he was young, basketball had been woven into his very identity, thanks to his dad's influence. Luck had led to him inheriting natural talent, but practice, hard work, and consistency was what had gotten him so far. He knew if he continued playing the way he was, it wasn't Draymond he had to fear: a tarnished record, disappointed fans, and disdainful teammates scared him far worse. 

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Klay huffed, straightening up and dropping the headphones into Steph's seat. "Well, if he ever tries anything, let me know. I'm not gonna let him bully you."

Now it was Steph's turn to roll his eyes. He picked up his headphones, his music still emanating from them. "Thanks, big brother. You'll be the first to know."

Klay made a face, rubbing Steph's short hair playfully in the way he knew Steph hated before sinking back down in his seat. Steph just shook his head, a faint smile on his face, slightly reassured by Klay's protectiveness. He settled the headphones back over his ears and turned to the window again.

In just a few hours he would see LeBron for the first time since they'd fucked--the first time since he'd fucked Varejao.

His stomach gave another flip, and he sighed quietly, leaning his head back against the window, the Weeknd's mournful voice echoing in his ears. 

\-------

 

Cleveland was how Steph always remembered it: gray and cold, a slight drizzle making the air even chillier. Still, the streets were bustling, and Steph watched as people milled about on the sidewalks, seemingly unfazed by the drab weather. It was hard to imagine anyone living contentedly in such a place, so different from California. As always he thought of how he himself had been born in Ohio, and wondered how his life would have played out if his family had stayed.

At the Q Steph took his time getting ready, for once foregoing the chance for some pre-game practice shooting. The thought of going out and missing all his shots in front of the Cavs and their fans was unbearable, doubly so if LeBron was out there, although he knew the other man rarely took part in the pre-game warm up. Still, Steph would have to face them all soon enough, and the thought had him so anxious that he dropped his gold-colored sneaker three times while trying to pull it on.

"Will you relax?"

It took all Steph's willpower not to jump as Klay suddenly plunked down next to him on the locker room bench, leaning down to grab Steph's shoe and handing it over to him. Steph smiled brittlely as he took the shoe, his stomach too upset to become defensive. "I'm nervous as shit," he admitted to his friend, pulling the sneaker on and beginning to lace it up tightly.

"Clearly." Klay slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in closer. "Quit psyching yourself out. You know you're a bad-ass ball player, so just go out there and do what you do."

Steph huffed out a breath, his mouth quirking into a half-smile, half-grimace. "That's some sage advice, man. I never thought of that." He rolled his eyes, moving to lace up his other shoe. "Easier said than done, bro."

Klay frowned, releasing him and sitting back slightly, looking him over with an appraising eye. "I don't get it, Curry. You've been acting weird as hell lately. It started right around our last game against the Cavs. And don't think I haven't noticed the weird vibe between you and Varejao."

Steph hesitated, inwardly cursed Klay's uncanny ability to read him. Klay knew he liked men, and had been nothing but supportive, even agreeing to keep it quiet from the rest of the guys. He knew he could trust Klay; maybe it would actually help to get it off his chest and tell his friend the real reason he'd been so distracted. Glancing around the locker room--most of the guys were out on the court practicing before the game, save Bogut and Iguodola, who were conversing near the door, and Varejao, who was hovering by the locker on the far side of the room, his face unreadable--Steph motioned for Klay to come closer. He did so, expression curious.

"After our last game against Cleveland..I kinda..er..ran into LeBron after the game," he began cautiously, avoiding Klay's eyes in favor of the tiled floor. 

The other man's eyes widened almost comically. "Did he mess with you?" he asked in a bad stage-whisper. Steph shushed him, glaring, and Klay hunched his shoulders a little, looking contrite. 

"Ha. I guess that's one way of putting it." Steph paused, taking a deep breath as he gathered his courage. "We kind of..you know. Uh. Had sex."

For a minute he thought his friend would fall right off the bench. Annoyed, Steph had to stop himself from telling Klay he could catch a basketball in his mouth if he kept it hanging open that widely. "You what?!"

Steph rolled his eyes and scowled to cover his discomfort, wondering why he'd thought it was a good idea to tell Klay after all. "We had sex. Copulated. Fucked. In the locker room," he added dryly, for clarity's sake.

"Shit." Klay shook his head slowly, still looking stunned. Then his brow furrowed, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. "So, wait..that's why your game has been off? 'Cause the 'D was so good it's got you dickmatized?"

"Fuck, man!" Steph scrubbed a hand across his flaming-red face, scowling through his fingers at his teammate. "Where the fuck did you hear that shit, anyways? Seventeen Magazine?"

Klay shrugged, unbothered. "It's a thing, man."

Steph just groaned, running a hand agitatedly over his hair, his shoulders slumping. "Er..that's not all, either. There's more."

"Fuck--I don't think anything could top that, man."

"Oh yeah?" Steph smiled humorlessly. "How about this: two weeks ago I slept with Varejao."

Klay gaped at him again, eyes nearly bulging out of his head. "Okay, yeah, uh..that tops it." He blinked slowly, clearly trying to process the information. "So..I don't get it. You have some kind of disease that can only be cured by a dicking from a Cavs player? I think you should go for J.R. Smith next." He smirked mischeviously, looking highly amused with himself.

"Ha-ha. Real fucking cute. Fuck you, you fucking asshole." Steph went to rise from the bench, but Klay grabbed his arm, yanking him back down.

"Okay, okay, sorry. You know I can't help myself." He gave Steph a goofy grin, and Steph felt some of his irritation fade away, never able to stay mad at Klay for long. 

Klay's gleeful expression sobered. "I'm just shocked as hell, you know? I mean, how the fuck did that even happen?" 

"With Varejao it was after we went to the bar together a couple weeks ago. Enough said," Steph said dryly, thinking back to their alcohol-infused coupling. He paused for a moment, thoughtful. "With LeBron..fuck, I still don't really know." His cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head, feeling suddenly exposed.

Klay let it slide without comment, as if sensing his wariness towards the topic. "Well, at least that explains the weird mood you get whenever Varejao walks in the room." He clapped Steph on the shoulder, giving him a meaningful look. "You gotta talk to him and clear the air, you know? I mean, you said it was just a drunken one-off, right? And you wanna just forget about it? He probably feels the same way. Just talk to him."

"Fuck." Steph heaved a sigh, feeling tired before they'd even begun to play. "You're right, man. And you know I hate when I gotta say that."

Klay grinned, punching him in the bicep. "Go. Now's your chance." He nodded over to where Varejao was still standing by the lockers, before giving Steph a final pat and heading for the door. 

With a heavy sigh Steph grudgingly made his way for Varejao, practically dragging his feet in his reluctance. Varejao didn't seem to notice him approach, fiddling unncessarily with his jersey, apparently lost in thought.

"Hey Varejao."

The taller man spooked, his surprised expression disappearing quickly when he saw it was Steph. "Oh, hey, Curry." He looked faintly pained, a feeling Steph most definitely shared.

He decided to just go for it. "Look..I know things have been, er, awkward as fuck after what happened. But we gotta just put it behind us. I mean, this has gotta be weird enough for you already, being back here since..yeah." Steph flushed, suddenly realizing that particular topic might still be a sore spot for Varejao, one he didn't want to re-agitate. 

Steph plunged ahead before Varejao could dwell on it. "We all gotta be on our A-game. The team needs both of us working together if we wanna have a shot at winning tonight. And from now on, too. You feel me?"

Varejao nodded, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. "That's what I wanna do, too. Forget about..uh, you know." He hesitated, bowing his head slightly until his long hair obscured his face, still toying with the hem of his jersey. He cast a glance over at the still-laughing Bogut and Iguodola before looking down again, his voice a mumble when he spoke next.

"What happened..between me and you, I mean. Alcohol's a bitch, right?" He gave a fake little laugh, sobering almost instantly. "I'm not..like that. At all." He looked Steph right in the eye, then, giving him a pointed look.

Steph felt his stomach drop, a prickly feeling breaking out all over his skin. He forced a laugh, but it sounded artificial even to his own ears. "Oh, yeah, man. 'Course not. I know that." He couldn't bring himself to offer his own false protestations.

Luckily Varejao seemed so relieved by Steph's acceptance of his assertion that he appeared not to notice. He gave Steph a genuine grin, tension visibly melting from his shoulders. "Cool. And don't worry about tonight: I'm a Warrior now. The Cavs are my past." With a quick nod at Steph, he slammed his locker shut and strode away, Iguodola and Bogut stopping him on their way out to engage him in their conversation.

Steph watched vacantly, seething quietly. How nervy was it to deny you were anything "like that" after fucking another man in a back alley? And the way he'd said it..as if Steph had spent the last few weeks pining over him and Varejao had to let him down easy. Steph snorted to himself, glowering. Like the sex had been anything to pine over!

A tiny thought wormed its way into his brain: what if LeBron said the same thing? Sure, he wouldn't be able to use alcohol as an excuse, but they always came up with something. Steph had slept with several men in the past who had been unable to bring themselves to admit--even just to Steph--that they actually enjoyed it, which always made him feel vaguely used. Steph's stomach churned as he thought of the very real possibility that LeBron might pretend nothing had ever happened between them at all. 

Steph shook his head, casting off his uneasy thoughts. So what if Varejao wanted to be in denial? Whatever helped him sleep at night. Steph would do as they'd agreed: put it out of his head, and focus on working together with Varejao towards their shared goal. As for LeBron..he would try to do the same, not only for his team's sake but for his own. If LeBron spurned him, he'd get over it in time, even if it hurt his pride (and-who was he kidding?-the rest of his feelings, too). And if LeBron was still interested..well, that would just be a bonus.

For now..it was game time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! *waves* I'm back with chapter 3! Unfortunately it's sex-free..but the good news is I'm already nearly done with the final chapter of this story, which contains all the good stuff! :3 I'll be updating the warning tags to reflect the new chapter once I post it. It won't be anything too crazy (yet *grins*) but better safe than sorry right??
> 
> Hope you enjoy! As always thanks to everyone who's reading/commenting/enjoying this story!

Steph waited near the edge of the court with his team, his heart pumping wildly as the introductory segment began, filling the arena with noise and excitement. He chewed anxiously on his mouth guard, a bad habit that he couldn't seem to break. Strangely enough it calmed him, gave him something to focus on when he was nervous or upset or just plain bored. Right now it was definitely nerves he was feeling the most. 

It was the usual show: light tricks, pro-Cavs video on the 'Humungotron', bursts of fire shooting from the ceiling: all perfectly calculated to work the fans into a frenzy. The announcer began calling out the home team's starting lineup--Tristan Thompson, Kyrie Irving, J.R. Smith, Kevin Love--and Steph's heart seized as he called the final name: LeBron James. Steph nearly swallowed his mouthguard as he watched the other man trot out onto the court, looking entirely unruffled by the screams of adoration from the crowd. LeBron greeted each of his teammates with a different complex handshake, ignoring the lights in his face and the cameras watching from nearby, more than used to both. 

Steph's attention was torn away by Klay clapping him on the shoulder, silently lending his support, and Steph met his eyes, nodding in grateful acceptance. He could do this.

All too soon it was time for tip-off: Klay versus Tristan Thompson. Steph hovered nearby along with Draymond, Iguodola and Bogut, steeling himself. The Cav's starters gathered likewise around Thompson. Steph's eyes sought out LeBron's face, and as if sensing the attention the other man met his gaze. His face was completely impassive, but his dark eyes were searing, sending a sudden jolt down Steph's spine.

He remained frozen under the gaze, unable to look away, aching to know what LeBron was thinking behind his stone face. Distantly he heard the ref's whistle, and he was startled back to alertness when Klay managed to smack the ball towards them, Draymond snatching it out of the air and bumping into him in the process. 

From the very beginning the game was fast and furious. The Cavs were emboldened by their last win and their home court advantage, and it showed. Their aggression in both defense and offense coupled with his newfound self-doubt had Steph rattled, and he made several embarrassing mistakes: he missed a pass from Iguodola, he threw the ball away during a play, and he missed all of the long-range shots he attempted.

At one point when Steph had the ball, tension buzzing in the back of his brain, LeBron came up and stole it from him mid-dribble. Steph watched dumbly as the other man sprinted to the other side end of the court, easily dodging Bogut and Draymond, and slammed the ball into the basket in his signature style. The crowd went wild, and LeBron accepted praise from his grinning teammates, clearly pleased with the acknowledgement. 

A second later Steph found himself pinned under the sharp, dark gaze once again. It was incredibly reminiscent of the up-close scrutiny LeBron had fixed on him while Steph was held in place against the locker by the other man's bulk, and Steph felt his heart begin to race, his throat suddenly feeling quite dry. He could swear he saw the ghost of a smirk touch LeBron's lips before he was moving to get back in defensive formation. 

By the end of the first quarter they were already down by five and Steph only had a few points to his name. Coach Kerr gathered them around for a quick meeting, and Steph avoided his teammates' eyes, afraid of what he would see there, chewing agitatedly on his mouthguard as he listened.

"Okay, guys: we've got to make some more baskets here," Kerr told them, his eyes landing on Steph's face. Steph shrunk back slightly under the coach's piercing blue gaze, feeling chastised. "Forget about our last game against them. We've beaten them before and we'll do it again."

But the second quarter didn't fare much better for Steph, and halfway through Kerr benched him in favor of Livingston. Steph watched miserably from the sidelines as the Cavs trounced them, led by LeBron, who had already put up half the points. By halftime, despite the best efforts from the rest of the guys they were down by 12, much to the delight of the crowd.

The mood in the locker room was downright somber, although Barbosa and Barnes both clapped Steph on the shoulder in encouragement as he walked by. Still, Steph felt awful, hyper-aware of the blame he shouldered for their low score.

"Quit beating yourself up," Klay told him, reassuring as ever. "I can tell by the look on your face you're blaming yourself."

"Because it's my fault!" Steph groaned, slumping against the locker, his head falling back against the hard metal as he squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "If it wasn't for my weak-ass shooting we wouldn't be losing right now..you know it."

Klay just shook his head. "I don't know any such shit. Look-do you remember the locker room scene in Space Jam, when Michael Jordan gave all the Looney Tunes some of his 'Secret Stuff'?"

Steph lifted his head up, gaping at Klay in disbelief. "Are you seriously trying to give me advice from a shitty kids' movie from the 90's right now?"

Klay looked positively affronted. "Shitty? 'Space Jam' was the highest-grossing basketball movie of all time! Did you know that it was actually Jordan's--"

"Klay," Steph cut in, a note of impatience in his voice.

"Sorry, sorry. The point is, they were losing because they didn't believe in themselves. They didn't really need the 'Secret Stuff'--they had the ability to win inside themselves the entire time." Klay poked Steph in the chest with his index finger, giving him a meaningful look. "It's the same with you."

Steph gave his friend a dubious look in return. "Klay, just when I think you can't get any fucking crazier, you go and say some shit like that." 

Klay just grinned at him, unhurt by the insult. "Hey, it's solid advice." 

He sobered then, his head tilting slightly to the side. "I'm not stupid, okay? Clearly you're still moping over what happened with LeBron. No, shut up for a minute."

Steph's mouth fell shut with an audible click, and he scowled, reluctantly letting the other man continue.

"You don't have to tell me all the details. In fact, please don't." Klay grinned crookedly at Steph's eye-roll. "But it's pretty obvious you're hung up on it. You wanna keep his attention, right?"

Steph nodded wordlessly, not bothering to deny it. 

"So bring the heat. Play your best game. And help us crush him and the rest of his team into little pieces." He winked at Steph. "I guarantee you'll get his attention then."

Steph huffed out a breath, but he couldn't help the grin that took over. "Now I know you've been reading Seventeen." Still, his chest felt lighter, and he felt the tiniest stirring of confidence amongst his nerves. Klay was right; Steph knew he had the skills. He just had to get out of his LeBron-induced mental funk and play the game like he always had. 

Klay winked, clapping Steph on the shoulder. "Come on. Half-time's almost over."

 

\----

By three minutes into the third quarter they'd managed to catch up to the Cavs so they were only trailing by six points. Despite his lackluster performance so far the Cavs weren't taking any chances: they kept Steph well-guarded, employing the annoyingly handsy Dellavedova, who fouled like he had a quota to reach. 

Five and a half minutes into the quarter Steph was finally given an opening: he'd managed to lose Dellavedova for a second near the 3-point line, and Klay lobbed a pass right to him. Steph hesitated uncertainly for a split second, sweat prickling at his temples as the Cavalier advanced on him with grim intent written all over his face--before instinct took over and he was shooting, the ball sailing over Dellavedova's outstretched hands. 

Steph watched, hardly believing, as the ball dropped cleanly into the basket as if guided by an invisible force: a picture-perfect example of "nothing but net". 

After that it was like a switch had been turned on inside him. His sudden awakening seemed to throw the Cavs off balance: they fumbled the ball away once and lost possession on a foul next, allowing Steph to make two more baskets in quick succession, drawing anxious murmuring from the crowd. The Cavs were now only two ahead. 

LeBron was put back in from the bench from where he'd been resting, stone-face as ever as he rejoined his team on the court. With his presence the Cavs amped up their defenses once again, but Steph's miraculous recovery had energized his team, and when they carved another opening for him he made another 3-point shot, the ball sailing through the net with ease. 

A poker-faced Tyronn Lue called a 20-second time out for the Cavs, no doubt to formulate a new plan for the last quarter. Sweating from exertion, his blood singing, Steph jogged over to the bench into his team's welcoming arms.

"I knew you had it in you, man!" Klay thumped him on the back so hard Steph nearly winced, but he mirrored his friend's infectious, face-splitting grin. "The fuck did I tell you!?"

The other guys offered their own chorus of praise and head rubs and back-slaps--even Draymond, who punched him in the bicep and gave him a solemn nod. Steph nodded back, his adrenaline still on high, confidence soaring for the first time in weeks.

What had earlier seemed an impossible task was now within their reach, but the battle was far from over. Kerr knew it too: he gathered them round, his expression serious. "Don't get too excited, guys," he said, never one to mince words. "They're not going to give up that easily. Curry--" He glanced at Steph, shaking his head slightly. "I don't know what happened, but whatever it is, keep doing what you're doing. Everyone else..work on creating space. Their defense is on point tonight."

Kerr was right: the Cavs wanted it as badly as they did, and they were having a good night. Despite Steph's resurgence, they only managed to stay neck-and-neck with the other team throughout the last quarter. Finally it came down to just fifteen seconds, and they were at 102 to the Cavs' 104, with possession. 

A last timeout was called. Steph could tell just by a glance that everyone was feeling the pressure: it had been a long, hard-fought game, and they didn't want to lose against the Cavs for the second time in a row. Now they could either try for a two to tie up the game and go into overtime, or aim for the more difficult three point to take all. 

Kerr tapped his clipboard, all business. "We'll go for the three," he said firmly. "The plan is to get the ball to Steph." He glanced at Steph, then, brow arching. "You think you can do it?"

Steph hesitated, aware of everyone's eyes on him as they waited for his response. It wasn't like he hadn't been under similar pressure before, but he was just now getting his footing back after weeks of his game being off-balance. What if he fucked it up again?

He thought of LeBron: his self-assuredness, his brazen confidence. He probably came into that night's game thinking it would be a sure win, after beating them last time. Another way to best Steph yet again--and prove that he really was a bitch.

His cheeks warming--now was definitely not the time to examine his reaction to that particular term--he gave a fierce, short nod. "I got it." He'd make the winning shot, and prove to LeBron that he was still very much in the game-and then maybe, like Klay said, he'd get his attention again.

The ball was given to Klay to throw back in. The ref blew his whistle, and there was a great flurry of movement as both teams battled for position. Once again Dellavedova was on Steph like a shadow, and Steph couldn't shake the persistent Australian. Klay chose to pass it to Iguodola, who was fending off Kevin Love. He looked to Steph as the clock quickly wound down, and a moment later made the decision to pass it to him despite Dellavedova.

Steph jumped and caught it, Dellavedova on his heels, waving his arms wildly and hoping for a block or a steal. There were only a few seconds left, and Steph knew he only had one chance. Gritting his teeth, he dribbled twice, pivoted on his heel, and shot.

The ball hit the rim, swirling around the basket, and for a moment it seemed the entire arena held its breath. Then it descended, dropping perfectly through the net. A second later the buzzer sounded, signalling the end of the game, the grating sound barely managing to pierce through the pounding in Steph's ears, the thumping in his chest. It was over: 105 to 104 Warriors.

Steph was practically tackled by his teammates in their excitement, a stark contrast to the crowd's disappointed murmurings and the dejected posture of the Cavs. They crowded around him, nearly smothering him, especially Klay, who took him in a headlock and squeezed him so hard he thought his head might pop.

"The Baby-Faced Killer strikes again!" he crowed gleefully, releasing Steph and giving him a sharp thump on the back. 

"That was one for the fucking papers huh?" Barbosa grinned, Barnes and Livingston grinning and nodding their agreement.

Klay clapped Steph on the side of the neck, still beaming. "Front-fucking-page. I think a miraculous comeback like that deserves a bit of celebration, don't you?"

Steph smiled back. "Always an excuse to party, huh?" But he couldn't help the distracted way his eyes cut away towards the other side of the court to the Cavs' bench, anxious to see Lebron's expression, his reaction to the last-minute loss and Steph's winning shot.

But LeBron was already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here it is--the 4th and final chapter of the second fic in my series.
> 
> I re-wrote this one about ten times..or at least it seems like it! Did I mention I've started dreaming about LeBron and Steph? Yeah..this crap is taking over my brain @_@
> 
> I would like to suggest that you check the updated tags before you read..it doesn't contain anything too crazy, in my mind anyways, but I know some people aren't into certain things, so it's just a fair warning!
> 
> As for my next move..I'll be starting on my third and final fic in this series! I've got lots of ideas already, so hopefully it won't take me long to get started/start posting!
> 
> As always..thank you to everyone who's reading! I hope it lives up to expectations! :3

Even for a Wednesday night the bar in downtown Cleveland was bustling.

Steph was not a huge fan of beer--he usually preferred liquor, preferably mixed with something to make it more palatable--but still he found himself sitting at one end of the bar (sans Varejao), his fourth mug of Guinness in front of him.

After the game he'd been "persuaded" to go out in celebration. Steph had tried to plead being tired as an excuse to stay behind, but Klay had openly balked.

"Bullshit man! You gotta go out and celebrate with us. You're the man of the fucking hour after that last minute shot you pulled. Besides," he'd grinned salaciously, waggling his brows at Steph, "you won't be tired for long once we get some liquor in you!"

So Steph had reluctantly acquiesced, knowing there was no way he could tell his teammates the real reason he didn't want to go out: he was hoping that LeBron might come find him in the locker room again, after everyone else had gone.

As it was, he'd ended up staying at the Mexican restaurant they'd chosen for only an hour before begging off for the night ("You sure man?" Klay, already a bit slurred and funnily enough not seeming all that bothered by Steph's early departure, no doubt related to the curvy, smiling brunette perched on his lap). Steph had accepted the heartfelt goodbyes from each of his teammates, all in varying stages of drunkenness thanks to the bottomless pitchers of margaritas spread out all along their tables, which Steph himself had barely touched. Then he'd headed back to the Hyatt, his fatigue no longer a made up excuse.

Still, once he'd gotten to the hotel he hadn't felt like going to bed yet, his thoughts too jumbled and distracted. Which was how he'd found himself downstairs at the sports bar, conveniently connected to the hotel itself. Now it was nearly midnight and Steph was somber and slightly drunk, resolutely ignoring the blonde five stools down who kept trying to catch his eye.

Ordinarily Steph might flirt a bit, purely for appearance's sake, but tonight he was in no mood. Tomorrow they would be back on the road, which meant who knew when he'd be in the same city as LeBron again. They didn't face the Cavs again for the rest of the regular season, so the only chance at even playing them again was if it came down to both of them in the finals like last year. But the playoffs were still over a month away, and it was impossible to know how they would turn out. It could be that tonight was the last time he'd see LeBron for months.

And he'd blown it, Steph thought morosely, slumping on his barstool. He should've came up with a better excuse to stay at the Q after the game. Or maybe sought LeBron out before the game. Or maybe..

He sighed, taking another drink of the bitter liquid. Or what? Even if he'd done any of those things there was no guarantee anything would have come of it. Likely it was just as he'd thought: LeBron hadn't thought anything of their locker room coupling and had already forgotten about it. That was that. It was time to get over it, instead of moping about it like a teenaged girl.

..maybe he'd mope just a little longer. Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Steph finished off his drink and motioned to the only woman he wanted to talk to tonight: the bartender. Young, with what seemed a permanently deadpan expression, she either hadn't recognized him or simply didn't care, fixing all his drinks efficiently and without any pesky small talk. Steph planned on giving her a generous tip.

He'd just taken his first sip--it was starting to taste better, now that he was a couple drinks in--when he happened to glance idly towards the door. And nearly spit out his drink.

Even in the dim lighting he could make out LeBron, dressed sharply in slacks and a dark blazer with a white tee underneath. Steph stared, the gears in his drunken brain turning as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He frowned, glancing suspiciously at his drink--maybe they had more alcohol content in them than he realized?--but when he glanced back up LeBron was still there, now settling in at the other end of the bar, the bartender already taking his order.

Steph stared some more, incognizant of his conspicuity, his heart suddenly in his throat. Was it just an odd coincidence? The nondescript little sports bar--which primarily served a variety of cheap beer and deep-fried appetizers--didn't seem like the kind of place LeBron would go to. Then again, it wasn't really the place he would expect to find himself, either. Maybe LeBron was a fan of shitty beer? Or..could he actually be there to see Steph?

A drink now in hand, Lebron rested his elbows on the bar top as he took a sip, glancing around the room. Inevitably his eyes fell on Steph, who was still staring quite obviously, unable to bring himself to look away. The other man's expression didn't change, but there was no way he didn't recognize Steph. Even from across the room his gaze was hypnotizing. 

It had to be a sign, Steph thought, sitting up straighter on his stool, his drink all but forgotten. He'd been kicking himself for missing his chance with LeBron, and now here was the man himself, appearing as if straight out of Steph's fantasies. He would be an idiot not to act.

His nerves steeled with the universal confidence-booster that was alcohol, Steph was just about to get up and make his way over to LeBron when the blonde woman beat him to it. Having apparently given up on Steph, she approached LeBron, hovering far too closely to him, obviously intent on getting a baller into her bed before the night was up. With her back to him, and too far away to hear, Steph didn't know what she said, but he could see the way LeBron grinned at her, his eyes flicking over her not-so-subtly.

His heart suddenly somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, Steph sank slowly back onto the stool, watching the blonde toss her hair and laugh at something LeBron said. How stupid had he been to think, even for a fraction of a second, that LeBron had come there to see him? It was just by chance that LeBron happened to show up at the same bar, and now Steph looked like an idiot once again, letting LeBron catch him sulking and drinking alone instead of out partying with his team like he should be.

Stomach roiling with self pity, he called the bartender over to settle his tab. He no longer felt much like drinking. Instead he'd go back to his room to sleep it off, and in the morning he'd join his team back on the road and forget all about what had happened with LeBron for good.

Signing his bill, Steph stood up somewhat unsteadily from the bar, feeling cold all over. To get out he had no choice but to pass by LeBron, who was still talking to the young blonde woman. As he walked by he resolutely avoided looking at them, but he couldn't help but notice the woman placing her hand on LeBron's arm from the corner of his eye. 

Jaw set, Steph shuffled his way to the elevator, grateful for the quiet, empty halls. The last thing he wanted was to have someone stop him for conversation when he felt like he'd just gotten sucker-punched in the gut. Or maybe like he'd been thrown to the ground by LeBron again, he thought with a grim smile, only this time it had nothing to do with a basketball game.

Inside the elevator he slumped gratefully against the mirrored wall, still shaky from a combination of fractured nerves and alcohol. Soon he'd be asleep, and he wouldn't have to think about LeBron following the blonde back to her room while Steph lay alone with only his hand for company.

There came the sudden sound of someone re-opening the elevator doors before they could fully close, and Steph glanced up warily, hoping he wasn't about to have to make small talk with an excited fan. But to his shock it was LeBron who stood there, alone, the hall empty behind him.

For a moment they just looked at each other, before Steph's mouth acted for him. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, cringing at his slightly panicked tone.

LeBron quirked a brow at him, stepping onto the elevator as if invited. "Didn't get a chance to talk to you at the bar. You ran off too fast." The metal doors closed smoothly, sealing them in, and LeBron instantly crowded him against the mirrored wall, almost but not quite touching him. Up close his eyes were more of a hazelnut brown, glittering madly in the low lighting of the elevator, his voice pitched low when he spoke again. "I scare you off?"

The words were laced with double meaning, and Steph felt his heart in his throat again, his head swimming from cheap beer and the other man's proximity. He felt like his entire brain had been wrapped in gauze as he became hyper-aware of LeBron: his muscled bulk, his heat, the sharp, masculine smell of him. To his shame, just like during their last encounter he found himself unable to meet LeBron's eyes, the gaze far too intense at such a short distance. 

Eyes shifting to the side, Steph forced a laugh, the sound echoing strangely in their small, metal enclosure. "Nah, man. Just beat after the game. Sides..you were looking pretty friendly. Didn't wanna interrupt." To his horror it came out sounding more petulant than he'd meant it to. 

Unfortunately LeBron heard it too. He smirked, leaning his head back slightly as he looked down his nose at Steph. "You sound a little upset."

"Upset?" Steph snorted, skin prickling at the cocky smile LeBron wore. "Why the fuck would I be? Gotta get off when you can, right? It doesn't mean a fucking thing to me." His voice rang bitter even to his own ears. 

LeBron arched a brow at him, a smirk still pulling at his lips, the look doing funny things to Steph's stomach. "That right? 'Cause the way you rushed out back there suggests otherwise."

Feeling a surge of embarrassed irritation at LeBron's taunting, Steph gave a fierce scowl. "You think I care who you fuck? 'Cause lemme tell you..I wasn't thinking about that when I was fucking Varejao a few weeks ago." In Steph's alcohol-marinated brain it had seemed like a good thing to say, but something about the way the LeBron went tense, the smirk fading from his face, made him instantly regret it. 

"You and Varejao," LeBron said flatly. It wasn't a question, but Steph rambled on anyways, feeling a sudden need to explain.

"I mean, uh, it was just the one time thing. It probably won't, you know, happen again or anything." LeBron's darkened expression didn't waver, and Steph inwardly cursed. Had he just completely fucked up?

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the top floor. LeBron pulled away from him as the doors opened, still silent, and Steph hesitated for a moment, unsure. Stomach in knots, he moved to get off the elevator, half expecting LeBron to stay behind and go back to the lobby. But the other player followed him off, wordlessly keeping pace with Steph as he made his way down the hall to his room.

At the door Steph fumbled in his pocket for his key card, aware of LeBron hovering right behind him, watching his every move. Finally, after nearly dropping the card twice, he managed to get the door open, flipping the light on as he entered. He turned just as LeBron shut the door behind them, watching with a combination of dread and excitement as LeBron slid the deadbolt in. 

Licking his lips, Steph fidgeted where he stood, feeling gawky under LeBron's sharp gaze. "So, uh-"

"Stop talking."

Steph's mouth snapped shut as LeBron began undoing his belt, toeing his shoes off as he did so. 

"I'm gonna help you out," LeBron said affably, belt clinking as he shoved his slacks and boxers down. His cock was already half-hard, and Steph watched with a dry mouth as he gave it a few leisurely strokes, the flesh filling out under his touch. 

"Since you seem to need dick so much, I'll let you suck me off. If you do it right I might even let you sit on it." His dick was every bit as intimidating as Steph remembered; it twitched faintly under his stare. 

"Well?" LeBron looked down his nose at Steph, still stroking lazily, his brows raised expectantly. "Come here."

Steph hesitated, his dick already stirring at the sight. Part of him--okay, most of him--wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees right then and there, but a tiny part of him (the part wrapped up in his pride) still felt ashamed at how easily he'd bent to LeBron's will last time. This almost felt like a test, to see if he'd bare his belly again. And although he ached for it, he didn't want to look weak in front of LeBron again.

Shaking his head a little, Steph stayed rooted to the spot. "I don't think-"

"I didn't tell you to think. I told you to get your ass over here."

Steph was no match for such a commanding tone. With a sudden lump in his throat he slunk forward, already rock hard in his jeans. Abandoning all pretense of pride he sunk down onto his knees on the plush carpet, his heart pounding in his breast, silently communicating his submission.

Instantly LeBron tangled a hand in his hair, wrenching his head back and forcing Steph to meet his eyes. "You give it up to every dude in town but wanna act like my dick's not good enough for you?" he demanded. Free hand still on his dick, he thumped it twice against Steph's cheek, leaving a smear of pre-cum in its wake.

Steph flushed, unconsciously flicking his tongue against a mouth guard that wasn't there; he settled for swiping it over his bottom lip. He was suddenly very warm, the heat of the room almost stifling. Head pulled back, throat bared, he was once again reduced to wordlessness under LeBron James's oppressive gaze.

"How come as soon as I touch you, you suddenly don't have nothin' to say?" He guided his cock to Steph's mouth, the damp head pressing against Steph's plump bottom lip. "Open your fucking mouth."

With a shudder Steph did as he was told, eyes sliding shut as he finally got what he'd been thinking about for weeks. Without prompting he flicked his tongue over the head, tasting the salty bitterness, before sucking down as much as he could, his cheeks sharply hollowed from the effort, the flesh hot and heavy on his tongue. From above him LeBron let out a low grunt, tightening his grip in Steph's hair, sliding in further until he was pressing bluntly at the back of Steph's throat.

Immediately Steph gagged, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, his pulse fluttering in his throat as his airway was obscured. On instinct he tried to pull back, but LeBron held firm, keeping him locked in place.

"Don't tell me a slut like you can't handle this," Lebron murmured, stroking his free hand almost tenderly down the side of Steph's face before digging a thumb sharply into his straining jaw. Steph groaned, gripping onto LeBron's muscular thighs, arching shamelessly into his hold as the other man began brutually fucking his mouth. 

"You get on your knees like this for Varejao? Let him bust a nut in your mouth?"

Tears were flowing freely now, streaming from Steph's tightly clenched shut eyes, spit and pre-cum oozing out of the corners of his mouth as LeBron kept up the vicious pace. He was so hard he felt dizzy, the ache in his jaw only heightening his arousal.

"I can't hear you, bitch. Speak up." 

A fresh wave of heat washed over Steph at the goad, that damned word..he dug his nails into LeBron's thighs, struggling to keep his mouth open wide, his cock pressing insistently up against the inside of his fly. 

He cried out as LeBron pulled his head back again, his grip painfully tight. Steph looked up through blurry eyes, met LeBron's flinty expression.

"Or maybe you let him blow his load all over your fucking face?"

Steph shuddered, mouth still gaping. His sloshed mind wondered vaguely at the embarrassing picture he must make: tear-stained cheeks, lips swollen, drool running down his chin, leaking in his fucking jeans just from being treated like a whore. Suddenly he wanted to tell LeBron: tell him how Varejao couldn't compare, hadn't even come close, that Steph would never let Varejao do that--but then LeBron was yanking him up by his arm, the room tilting sideways at the abrupt motion.

"LeBron!" was all he managed, uncaring of how needy he sounded, concerned only with how much he ached to be touched. He fumbled at his own fly, desperate to release some of the pressure, but was interuppted when LeBron spun him around and walked him two steps back, shoving him down roughly onto the king-sized bed, his phone bouncing out of his jacket pocket on the impact.

"I've gotten better head from the hoes who show up at all my games," LeBron told him, shrugging out of his jacket. "But maybe your ass'll be better." He pulled his white tee up and over his head, dropping it uncaringly to the floor.

Growing up Steph had been among the tallest in his class, and he'd always considered himself to be pretty fit, but next to LeBron he felt positively scrawny. He licked at his bottom lip, clumsily palming at his dick through his jeans as his eyes roamed greedily over every inch of LeBron: broad shoulders and chest, tight stomach, muscled arms, the dark skin covered in swirling ink; slim, tapered hips; and most impressively, his long, thick cock, jutting out proudly, shiny with pre-cum and Steph's spit. 

In a flash LeBron was on him, knocking Steph's hand out of the way, roughly tugging off Steph's jacket and t-shirt and tossing them aside. He yanked Steph forward by the waistband of his jeans until his hips were right on the edge of the bed, making quick work of the fly, and a moment later Steph was clad in nothing but his boxer-briefs, the front soaked through from his aching dick.

LeBron leaned down over him, covering him entirely with his bulk, and Steph nearly sobbed as his huge hand gave Steph a squeeze through the wet fabric. His teeth grazed the side of Steph's neck, and Steph arched up against him, dizzy from the feeling of their skin pressed together.

"You get this fucking wet for Varejao?" LeBron mused against Steph's sweaty temple, grabbing harshly at his small waist, thumbs stroking over his flat stomach. Steph shuddered, his arms wound around LeBron's impossibly broad back, nails scraping into the muscled shoulders. He was so fucking huge, more massive than any of the guys Steph had ever slept with, even Varejao, who might've been a bit taller but who was no match in sheer muscle tone or strength. Steph could barely move or breathe under LeBron's weight, his breath coming in shallow pants, head swimming at the knowledge that he was entirely at the other man's disposal.

"He ain't shit," he groaned, trying in vain to grind against LeBron's hard stomach, his cock trapped between them. "Fuck..I want your dick in me. Give it to me, fuck, I can take it." He pressed his nose to the crook of LeBron's shoulder, inhaling the sharp scent, unable to help himself from biting down on the corded muscle.

LeBron huffed out a laugh, warm breath ghosting over Steph's face. "You say that to all the guys you bend over for?" He tugged Steph's boxers down and wrapped his hand around his dick, and Steph nearly screamed, his entire body quivering.

Unthinkingly Steph turned his head back, trying to bring their lips together, but LeBron resisted him easily, his dark eyes narrowing. "What the fuck makes you think I want your mouth on me after you been sucking off every dude who asks?"

Stomach plummeting, Steph shook his head dumbly. "No, that's not-"

LeBron easily broke out of his hold, grabbing hold of him and flipping him onto his stomach on the cushy mattress. Before Steph could process the sudden change in position LeBron's hand came down on his ass with a stinging slap, drawing a sharp cry from him.

"Lift your hips."

Shakily Steph managed to get his knees under him, letting out a gasp as LeBron shoved down on the base of his spine until he was unnaturally arched, his ass high in the air. A second later the hand disappeared, and there was the sound of movement behind him, what sounded like LeBron walking away; adrenaline still coursing through him, Steph was about to glance over his shoulder when the footsteps returned, and a small tube suddenly dropped down on the mattress right next to his hand.

"You got 30 seconds."

It took at least five for Steph to understand; then, stomach swooping, he was fumbling with the tube of hotel lotion, squeezing some onto his fingers with a trembling hand. Face on fire, heart thudding, he reached back behind himself, gritting his teeth as his first two fingers sank inside. 

The angle didn't allow him to go very deep, and even two of his fingers weren't very thick, but Steph pumped them in and out anyways, spreading his knees as wide as he could to give himself better access, every inch of his skin prickling with heat as he felt LeBron's eyes on him. Clumsily, self-consciously, he scissored himself open, frustration blooming at the meager pressure his fingers provided him.

"Time's up." LeBron slapped his hand away well before thirty seconds, draping himself over Steph's back, his muscled arms bracketed on either side of Steph to cage him in. Steph struggled once more under his bulk, the suffocating heat of him, his dick leaking copiously onto the bed cover below him.

"You ready?" LeBron murmured, rocking against Steph's ass, stubble scraping against his shoulder. He smoothed his hand almost sensually down Steph's thigh before giving his hip a sharp smack. "Ask me for it."

"LeBron..please!" They seemed to be the only two words he could still recall. 

A sudden sound pierced through the room, and it took Steph's foggy brain a moment to register: it was his phone, vibrating loudly against the mattress somewhere behind him, the Weeknd's voice slightly muffled. He felt LeBron shift behind him, and then the music grew clearer, closer, the song he'd heard a thousand times suddenly sounding foreign to his ears. 

"It's your boy Klay," LeBron said, almost thoughtfully. "He calling for a fuck too?"

The mattress shifted again, creaking slightly in protest; LeBron's hand stroked idly over Steph's flank. "Better answer it, huh?"

The music cut off abruptly. Realization dawned too late in Steph's sluggish mind as LeBron draped heavily over his back again, reaching out one long arm and dropping Steph's phone down near the very edge of the mattress, just out of Steph's reach. His hands migrated back to Steph's hips, fingers sinking into the flesh like hooks. 

"Steph?" Klay's voice, tinged with confusion, sounded over speaker phone just as LeBron shoved into him. 

Steph choked on a scream, pain zinging up his spinal cord at the sudden intrusion. His fingers hadn't been nearly enough to prepare him: his ass was resisting, unused to the girth, the sensitive skin fluttering feebly around LeBron's massive dick. Unconsciously Steph tried to pull forward, lessen the pain, but LeBron yanked his hips back and roughly sank in further. Steph's arms were shaking, struggling to hold him up as LeBron slowly split him open, inch by inch. Then he slid the rest of the way home, his hips settling against Steph's ass, and Steph couldn't catch the pained gasp that erupted from his throat.

"Steph??" Klay's voice rang out again, more demanding this time. In the span of just a few seconds Steph had nearly forgotten him. He could picture Klay on the other end: brow furrowed, mouth downturned, a finger in his free ear to block out background noise. Probably pacing. 

"Yeah, man," Steph managed shakily. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, his rigid spine; his breath felt like it had been knocked out of him as his body tried desperately to accommodate LeBron. The piercing pain was nearly overwhelming, flooding his senses, a bitter taste rising up in his throat. He struggled to keep his voice steady. "What's going on?"

LeBron shoved him down abruptly into the mattress, palms splayed on Steph's upper back, giving a few shallow, experimental thrusts as he waited for Steph to adjust to him. Steph was trapped helplessly under his greater weight, the side of his tear-stained face smashed into the bed cover. 

"You tell me! You sound out of breath or something. The hell you doing over there?"

Steph smothered a whine as LeBron pulled all the way out, only to shove right back in. His ass gave way more easily now, but the pain still radiated, sharp and bright in his skull.

"Sleeping with the enemy," LeBron mused from above him. "Shit, you're so fucking tight." His hips snapped sharply as he began a steady rhythm, the bed rocking slightly under the movements.

"What'd you say??"

"Nothing, man," Steph said quickly, louder than necessary, heart pounding as he scrabbled for a hold on the mattress. "I'm just laying here. Can't--ah!--seem to fall asleep." With each thrust the pain was lessening, replaced with a sweet, reverberating ache.

"Can't sleep? Man, are you still moping about LeBron?"

Steph made a sudden desperate surge forward, his fingers brushing against the edge of his phone, but quick as a snake LeBron captured his arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, Steph almost smashing his face into the mattress from the momentum. The bed creaked in protest under them.

"Uh, Klay, I really can't talk right now," Steph said between gritted teeth, the sharp stretch of his shoulder blade in stark contrast to the bolts of pleasure licking at his brain. Humiliated by Klay's inadvertent reveal, and frustrated by his own helplessness, Steph's face burned hot; he was disgusted to find that his dick was harder than ever, stiff and leaking between his kneeling thighs. He fervently hoped that for once Klay was not in a talkative mood. 

No such luck.

"'Cause if you are, you gotta snap out of it, man," Klay continued on, oblivious to Steph's predicament. He sounded utterly sloshed. "It's like I told you, right? You can't let him fuck with your head."

"Klay, seriously--"

"You know I don't think any less of you for liking dick, man. I mean, you're like a fucking brother to me, you know? Nothing could ever change that shit. So it hurts me when you're hurting, man." There was a heavy sniff over the line; Steph noted in horror that it sounded like Klay was actually getting choked up.

"Klay, get your drunk ass off the phone and go lay down for the night," Steph managed, fingers digging into the blanket as LeBron kept up his steady pace. From his pinned position he couldn't even worm his free hand underneath himself to touch his achingly hard dick, which rubbed teasingly against the mattress at each movement with nowhere near enough pressure. He was caught like a fish in a net, his spine aching from the sharp arch, his knees numb underneath him, his bicep quivering from trying to hold himself up. 

"Nah, man, lemme finish." More snuffling; the sound of a chair shifting. "What I'm saying is, if hopping on LeBron James's dick is what you wanna do, then go for it! I won't judge you. Well, maybe a little bit, 'cause did you see that guy's jumpshot tonight? It's like, what the fu-"

"Klay." Steph squeezed his eyes together tightly, humiliation and pleasure coursing through him in equal measure as LeBron rammed into him, the sound of flesh against flesh resounding throughout the spacious room. He was sure that Klay must be able to hear it, that everyone in the entire hotel must be able to hear: the squeaking of the bed frame, LeBron's hips rutting against his ass, his half-gasps that he tried to choke down. 

"Sorry. Just, take care of yourself, okay? Don't let this shit ruin your game. You're the best of the best, man. You deserve to win." A short pause. "But seriously, you gotta tell me what it's like. I bet it's like sitting on a fucking fire hydrant--"

"Goddammit, Klay!" Embarrassment seized him once again, making his voice shrill. The pleasure was building, throbbing behind his eyelids, making his lower abdomen clench tight.

"My bad." Steph could practically hear Klay's grin through the telephone, his sentimental mood evidently replaced with his usual irritating disposition. "Okay, I'll let you get to bed. See you later, lover boy." The line cut out with an audible click. 

"Real sweet." 

Steph was suddenly empty, and a moment later LeBron was spinning him over onto his back, shoving Steph's legs up until he was practically in lotus, giving easy access to his loosened hole. LeBron gripped the tops of his thighs for leverage, sliding all the way home in one smooth thrust. Steph moaned feverishly and tightened his legs instinctively on either side of LeBron, his body giving a feeble quiver as it was re-speared, having long since given itself over to the commanding intrusion. 

LeBron hovered over him, his chest slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he pounded into Steph. "Is that why you been jumping on every dick in town? You hung up on me, bitch?" His hands slid down to hold Steph's hips, pinning him down and open.

Steph moaned; he was so close. Dizzily he wrapped his hand around his dick, mouth slack, eyes squeezed shut as LeBron battered relentlessly against his prostate. His hand moved frantically over the slickened skin, out of sync with LeBron's thrusts, the pleasure welling up inside him like a pressurized can. LeBron was close too: Steph could tell by his quickening pace, the way his grip on Steph's hips tightened to bruising; the way his thrusts were becoming erratic. 

LeBron pulled all the way out again, yanking Steph forward off the mattress with a ferocious tug. Before Steph could get his feet under himself properly LeBron was shoving down roughly on his shoulder, and Steph crumpled like a house of cards, back to his knees on the carpeted floor. 

"I wanna hear you fucking say it," LeBron growled, fingers tangled in Steph's hair again, keeping him steady. He tugged hard on his cock, his face twisted in fury, sweat beading on his forehead. "Tell me who your ass belongs to."

"You," Steph groaned, pulling on his own dick, crying out as LeBron tightened his grip and gave him a little shake. "Fuck--! My ass belongs to you!"

"Don't fucking forget it, bitch." Another sharp tug on his hair, his neck screaming at the odd angle, and then LeBron was cumming all over his face.

It was enough to send Steph over the edge: with a gasp he came, spending himself all over his bare thighs. LeBron held him there, showering his face, thick gobs streaking across his forehead and nose and down onto his parted lips. It spiked his eyelashes, trailing down the edge of his jaw, dripping down onto his collar bone. LeBron's pumping slowed as he squeezed out the very last of it, shaking it onto his flushed cheek. Steph was utterly soaked with it, the viscous liquid sticky and warm on his skin, the carpet below him unpleasantly wet from his own release. 

A moment later the grip left his hair, and Steph slumped down on his splayed thighs like a puppet cut from its strings, his head spinning, still high from his shattering orgasm. He watched dumbly as LeBron began pulling his clothes back on, once more a striking figure in his sharp slacks and blazer, not at all looking like he'd just been balls-deep in Steph mere moments ago.

"If I hear you been playing around with Varejao and who-knows-who-else again, I'll wash my hands of your slut ass, and you can go on and fuck the entire Bay area if you want." He tugged casually on his jacket sleeve, straightening it, dark eyes flicking up to Steph's. "You get me?"

Stomach roiling, jaw clenched, Steph nodded wordlessly, the gawky feeling from earlier returning full force.

"Good." A smirk touched LeBron's lips; he quirked a brow at Steph, nodding at his face. "That's a real good look for you." A quick flash of teeth and he was turning to leave without a backwards glance.

Steph watched him go, still naked and kneeling, the door's heavy thud echoing in his skull.

For a long moment Steph simply sat, mind fizzing yet oddly blank; then he staggered to his feet, using the bed for leverage, gasping at the ache that rang through his limbs. He felt like he'd been hit by a fucking truck: his shoulder twinged with every movement, his back was stiff and sore, and his thighs were like jello, quivering underneath him. Worst of all was his ass: stupidly Steph reached down and prodded lightly at his tender, inflamed hole, wincing at the answering burn. Maybe Klay hadn't been far off with his whole 'sitting on a fire hydrant' analogy, he thought grimly.

He shuffled slowly to the bathroom, flipping on the fluorescent light. As he wet a wash cloth he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and froze, the water still rushing from the tap. 

His face was still streaked with cum, which was already starting to dry and flake in patches on his forehead and around his nose. His eyes were swollen, his mouth likewise; big bruises had already started to blossom on his hips, the skin there unevenly mottled. He looked utterly debauched and fucked-out: totally and completely used by LeBron. Again.

Stomach fluttering, Steph scrubbed harshly at his face with the washcloth, expression twisted in a scowl. What the fuck was wrong with him? Even after getting what he wanted--what he had barely dared to hope for again-- he was still acting like a teenaged girl. And where did LeBron get off? Telling him he couldn't sleep around..like he had the right. 

Still, the way he'd said it..there had been the strong implication that this was going to happen again. And, more tellingly, he'd made Steph say he belonged to him. Called Steph his bitch.

Heart suddenly in his throat, Steph finished scrubbing, tossing the washcloth onto the marbled counter in disgust at himself. 

He couldn't wait to see what would happen when he saw LeBron again.


End file.
